A Little Thing Called Fear
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: Stiles remembers the exact day he learned his father wasn't fearless: Friday, October 13th 2006. What starts out as a night of fun for two eleven year old boys, quickly becomes a nightmare for father and son. [A Stilinski family story, featuring a Young!Stiles and Papa-Bear!Stilinski. Chapter One contains spoilers for Stephen King films.]
1. Chapter 1: Stephen King Marathon

**A Little Thing Called Fear**

 **Chapter One: Stephen King Marathon**

" **FEAR"** _noun:  
_ "a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc.,  
whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid."

A neat and tidy definition offered by the dictionary. An accurate denotation of an emotion that was anything but easily explained. Fear wasn't just distressing: it was messy and painful, gut-wrenching. Imagined threats were no less terrifying than 'real' ones, especially if those threats were aimed not at oneself but at another – a person you loved more than your own being. Emotionally, physically, intellectually, and spiritually affecting, fear was so much more than the dictionary could ever describe. It had the power to bring you to your knees, to diminish you to hysterics, to push you over the edge and eradicate your humanity - an animal blind with panic. Fear could make you do things you never thought you would.

Fear: universal but varied. Childhood fears of monsters under the bed, and teenage fears of rejection. Adult fears of unemployment and making rent. Fears you're too afraid to even imagine: your worst nightmares come to life; demons disguised with skins of humans; policemen at your door in the middle of the night; bullets raining like a hurricane; destruction on a mass scale.

Sometimes the most courageous people have the most fear.

Stiles remembers the day he learned his father wasn't fearless.

He remembers the exact date too: Friday, October 13th 2006. The unluckiest day of the year. A day of dark magic, superstition, and mischief. Trouble was in the air that day, and if anyone was sure to find it, it was eleven-year-old Stiles Stilinski. He had always attracted trouble like a magnet – even as a child. The fact that he had sought out impish adventures on that night, dragging his best friend Scott along with him, probably hadn't helped matters either.

It all started the night before, on Thursday. There was a Stephen King movie marathon on: _Christine, Pet Sematary, Carrie, Cujo, Children of the Corn, It._ All the great horror classics he had heard about but never watched. His dad didn't want him watching scary movies. He knew Stiles had an overactive imagination and a deeply rooted belief in the supernatural the sheriff could never purge him of. Once an idea lodged itself in Stiles' mind, there was no getting rid of it. The last thing the sheriff needed was his son refusing to get in the car because it might be possessed, or running from every dog or clown he saw.

But the marathon was just too tempting. Stiles had dinner with the McCalls, same as he did most weekday nights, and then headed home. It was early yet, with plenty of sunlight remaining, and he knew his father wouldn't be home until late. He turned on the television, and settled on the couch with a bag of potato chips, a box of sour candies, and half a liter of Pepsi. His mother never would have let him eat so much junk food, especially so soon after supper, but since her passing the nutrition level of the Stilinski men's eating habits had diminished significantly.

Stiles was half-way through _Carrie_ when Scott called. Stiles held the phone to his ear with his shoulder and shoved a handful of chips into his mouth. "Dude, are you watching this? It started out pretty boring, but it's finally getting good!"

"No, Mom realized what I was watching and turned it off."

"That sucks," Stiles commiserated.

"Yeah. Is it scary yet?"

Stiles shrugged, though he knew Scott couldn't see him. "Not really. This is only the first one I've watched though."

"I wish I could watch," Scott sighed. "I gotta go. I'll see ya tomorrow."

"Later."

Stiles was transfixed. The images on the screen captured his attention and wouldn't let him go. He was starting to realize how many nuances went into great horror movies; how music drastically altered mood; how true creepiness didn't come from gore or violence, but from a latent, crazed darkness within human nature. He was beginning to feel sorry for Carrie – up until the point she went ballistic and killed everyone. He decided he was _never_ going to a high school prom.

 _Pet Sematary_ was next. Stiles thought it looked better. It opened cheerily enough, with a man and his wife and their two children. A perfect little family in a picturesque country house. The scariest movies always began with the kind of happy scenes other movies ended with. When the daughter's cat came back to life – a demonic version of itself – Stiles thought that was pretty cool. Spooky, if not horrifying.

But then the little boy died, and Stiles wasn't scared, just sad and disturbed. He felt he could understand the father's grief. He knew how painful it felt to lose someone you loved. The sun was sinking over the horizon and daylight was siphoned from the room. Stiles didn't turn on a light. He watched through his fingers as the son came back to life and murdered his own mother. "Don't do it!" he screamed, as the father made the same mistake twice, and buried his wife in the mystical cemetery. Idiot! What did he think was going to happen?

Desperation, Stiles knew, was what drove the man to do it. Desperation and love. He had seen the same bewildered look in his father's eyes after his mom had died. He wondered if his dad would have tried the same, if such a thing were possible. His dad had really loved his mom – really, really loved her. If the sheriff knew of a burial ground with the power to bring the dead to life, even if the resurrected weren't their former selves, would he have tried to resurrect Claudia? Would he try to resurrect Stiles if anything happened to him? Stiles didn't want to think about it.

After that, Stiles found himself becoming more and more frightened by the movies, but he couldn't seem to stop watching. Night closed in around him. Stiles pulled a blanket over his head and shoulders, swaddled in its warmth as he allowed himself to be scared. Midnight was fast approaching, but Stiles lost track of the time. He was watching _The Shining._ He thought it was the scariest yet. He knew he'd be seeing the redheaded twins in his nightmares. His first movie with nudity – the woman in Room 201 – was ruined, as she transformed into a hideous, decaying hag.

Stiles didn't notice the police cruiser pull into the drive. Nor did he hear the unlocking of the front door, the slow twist of the knob, the sheriff quietly stepping into the house to avoid waking his son. The son who should have been sleeping, not camping out in front of the TV. "Stiles!"

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin. Sheriff Stilinski turned on a lamp. "Dad!" He clutched at his chest. "You scared me!"

"What are you still doing up? It's a school night. You should have been in bed hours ago." Sheriff Stilinski stepped further into the living room and looked at the screen. Stiles quickly tried to grab the remote, but his father snapped it up. "What is this?"

"Um, a, uh, movie?"

"Is this _This Shining_!?" Stiles' sheepish silence was his answer. The sheriff sighed. He remembered watching this film in theaters. "What have I told you about watching horror movies?"

"That you, uh, didn't want me to?"

Sheriff Stilinski flicked off the television and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to get into this right now. Go upstairs and get ready for bed. _Now._ " Stiles obeyed. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how that movie ended anyway.

Sheriff Stilinski spoke to Claudia – just as he had every night since their marriage and hadn't ceased doing just because she had died – as he undressed and prepared for bed. "I don't know what to do with that boy sometimes." He shook his head and unbuttoned his shirt. "He's curious and spirited, like his mother. Is it ironic that the same qualities that attracted me to you make raising him more difficult? I wish you were here, Claude. He'd listen to you. You'd take good care of him. I want to do you proud, but it's so hard without you. God, I miss you."

Sheriff Stilinski propped his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. Nights were always worse. During the day, he was distracted. The sun and his responsibilities warded off the grief and the loneliness, kept him strong. The night brought him hollowness and pain, the darkness of his thoughts, reminded him of the empty space in his bed.

Someone knocked on his bedroom door. The sheriff sighed. "What is it, Stiles?"

The door was opened, revealing a pajama-clad boy, a pillow stuffed under one arm. "Dad, can I sleep with you tonight?"

Sheriff Stilinski thought it best to say no: it would toughen Stiles up, make him stronger, help him learn to deal with his fears on his own, teach him to listen when his father advised him not to do something. But the selfish part of him wanted to fill the empty space, wanted to feel the warmth of another person beside him, wanted to hold tightly to the last person he loved on the planet. "Alright, kiddo," he conceded. "Climb in."

Stiles hopped onto the bed, placed his pillow on top of his mother's old one, and curled up under the sheets. He watched as his father put on a t-shirt, examining the strong muscles along his shoulder blades and flanking his spine. The sheriff was putting on a little weight. It wasn't that long ago Stiles had believed his father was Superman. "Dad?"

"Yes, Stiles?"

"Do you watch horror movies?"

"No. I don't like them."

"Because they're scary?"

Sheriff Stilinski snorted and crawled under the covers. He could sense the length of Stiles beside him, and thought his son was growing quickly. He'd probably need new clothes in another month. "No, because I don't enjoy watching terrible, disgusting things happen to people. I see enough of that at work."

"You're not scared of ghosts?"

"No."

"Zombies? Vampires?"

"No, Stiles. I'm not scared of things that _don't exist._ Now, go to sleep." Sheriff Stilinski turned off the bedside lamp. He settled deeper into his pillows, his exhausted body relaxing into the luxurious much-deserved comfort of his bed. He closed his eyes, and felt himself drifting off. Beside him Stiles was quiet, and he hoped the boy had finally gone to sleep.

"Dad?"

"Huh?" Stilinski grunted.

"Is there anything you _are_ scared of?"

"Please, Sty, go to sleep."

"I bet you're not scared of anything. Nothing at all. Policemen are never scared."

"I'm scared of not getting any sleep and having to go to work early. Now shut up and go to sleep."

"That's it. I've made up my mind: you're not scared of anything." Sheriff Stilinski didn't feel like arguing the point. He had to be up at six, and it was already nearing one o'clock. All the coffee in the world couldn't make up for a lost good night's sleep.

"Good, now good night."

"Good night, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too." Sheriff Stilinski heard Stiles' breathing slow and dissipate into quiet snores. He tried to follow suit, but his brain wouldn't let him. How could he explain to Stiles that courage wasn't an absence of fear, but strength in spite of it? That he didn't need to be scared of silly supernatural creatures to understand the meaning of fear? That his worst fear had already come to pass the day he lost his wife, and as a result an even greater, more suffocating fear followed him around everyday, a crushing burden he endured on top of everything else?

He hoped his son never learned the meaning of fear. Hoped Stiles would always be more afraid of monsters under his bed than things found in the world. He hoped he could live up to this fearless ideal Stiles held of him, and he never had to show him just how terrified he was.


	2. Chapter 2: The Hale House

**Chapter Two: The Hale House**

When Stiles and Scott walked to school the next day, Stiles couldn't stop talking about the Stephen King marathon. Scott listened in rapt interest as Stiles eloquently described each film in elaborate detail. Scott could imagine the scenes perfectly, as though he had actually watched them with his friend. "And you know what today is don't you?" Stiles finished by saying.

"Friday?"

"The 13th!"

"So...?"

"'So?'" Stiles was using his _duh_ -voice – which meant Scott was in for an earful. "So, Friday the 13th is the spookiest day of the year – and this one lands in October. That makes it even creepier and jinxed. Tonight's the night all the crazies come out!" Scott was used to his friend's unorthodox, and sometimes downright bizarre, way of thinking, and he didn't like where this conversation was going. "It's the unluckiest day of the year! Beware black cats, walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, and passing through grave yards!"

"And...?" Scott didn't understand how this concerned him.

"I think we should celebrate it!"

"What? Why?"

"Duh, because it'll be _fun._ I have a theory I want to test out. I know this great haunted house-"

"No." Scott drew the line at haunted houses.

"You didn't let me finish," Stiles complained.

"Fine. What were you saying?"

"I know this great haunted house in the woods. A few years ago there was a huge fire and the whole family died." By finishing his sentence, Stiles had only made the entire idea sound even worse to Scott. He could do without entire families horribly burnt to crisps. What if their ashes still littered the remains of the old house? Ew. "With that many unnatural deaths, there has to be at least one ghost lurking around, right? I say we hold a seance and see if-"

Scott hadn't believed Stiles' plan could get any worse. Apparently it could. Scott shook his head vigorously and held up his hands. If haunted houses were just south of the cut-off line of things he would do, _seances_ were so far down the line was practically microscopic. "No. No, no, no, no."

"It'll be fun," Stiles promised in a singsong voice. Somehow Scott doubted that. Did Stiles even know him? Summoning the restless spirits of a family who had died grisly, agonizing deaths wasn't Scott's idea of a fun Friday night. It sounded more like the beginning of a gory B-horror film: two unsuspecting boys enter a haunted house and are never seen again, leaving behind nothing more than a bloody sneaker and a red hoodie. Scott shivered. He wanted to live to see manhood, thank you very much. "Don't be such a baby."

Scott ignored Stiles' provocation. He knew Stiles was attempting to trick him into agreeing by playing on his ego. It wasn't going to work, no matter how he egged him on. Stiles could call him whatever he wanted – a chicken, a wuss, a crybaby, a scaredy-cat, a mama's boy, a coward – he _was_ not giving in. "No." Not happening.

Stiles tried a different tactic. "I've seen the house from the outside. It hardly looks burned at all. Most of it is still standing. I guess the fire started in the basement or something. No one has lived there since the Hales died. I bet the inside is really cool. Dad says the Hales were a secretive family, strange. Kind of like a mystery. They mostly kept to themselves, and they lived in the _woods._ Like right _in_ the woods. Imagine how awesome it would be explore that house. I bet none of the other kids in town have been there. They probably don't even know it exists. We'd be the first ones. It would be our thing, our discovery. Like Christopher Columbus or something!" Scott crooked an eyebrow. "You know what I mean. This town is boring. It'd be an adventure! All the girls would find us so _cool._ " Stiles pitched his voice to mimic a girl's: "'Oh, Scott. You're so brave and cute. Will you be my boyfriend?'"

"What girls? Who would say that?" Scott couldn't help asking, but he added suspiciously, "You just want to impress Lydia Martin!"

"Well, duh, Lydia would find me awesome. But all her friends would be impressed too. Like that cute blond girl who never plays at recess. The one you have a crush on. What's her name?"

"Erica?"

"Yeah, Erica. I bet she'd think you were super brave! We'd be the kings of sixth grade!"

Scott paused for a moment. He seemed to deliberate the possibility. They were on the cusp of middle school and the first inklings of tween hormones. How they established themselves during this awkward transitional period could define their later identities. Impressing the ladies now could be pivotal to acquiring dates in the future. They could cement their names in the minds of their peers. For years the other kids would say, "Hey, do you remember that time Scott and Stiles..." If all it took was one night in a spooky house... "No." Scott shook his head. His voice had lost some of its energy but none of its conviction. Why couldn't Stiles take 'no' for an answer? "It's dangerous – and I'm not talking about any stupid ghosts. If there was a fire, the house isn't safe. We could get hurt."

Scott was being practical. Stiles hated when Scott was practical. "If you're too scared, I guess I'll just have to go by myself. And if I get hurt, no one will be there to help me."

Scott frowned and stopped walking. He grabbed Stiles' bicep and held him back, so the other boy stopped too. Scott searched Stiles' face, but he already knew his friend was serious. "Sty, that's a bad idea."

Stiles shrugged off Scott's hand. "I'm going whether you come or not. I just thought my _best friend_ would want to come with me on an adventure."

"I _am_ your best friend." The pair resumed walking in silence. Stiles was being stubborn, reckless, pigheaded, and just plain old dumb. Scott didn't appreciate the implication in his friend's words, and he didn't appreciate being coerced in this manner. Why should he feel guilty for refusing to do something he _really didn't_ want to do? But he knew Stiles would go to this house either way, and if it _was_ dangerous, he couldn't let Stiles go alone. He might get hurt; Scott couldn't let that happen. He'd never forgive himself, even if he had warned Stiles of possible bodily injury. Scott sighed. "Fine."

Stiles smirked but tried to hide it. "Sorry, what was that?"

Scott groaned, and reiterated louder, "Fine, I'll come with you."

"Yes!" Stiles pumped his fist and grinned. He threw an arm around his friend's shoulders. He was too excited and good-natured to gloat over his triumph, though it had been sorely won. "This is going to be awesome! We'll meet at my place after school, get what we need, and then we'll bike out to the Hale House."

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

Stiles used the Internet to research how to conduct a seance. He didn't learn anything he couldn't have learned from watching a movie. Basically you needed just needed to hold hands in a circle and try to channel spirits; asking simple questions was best; a medium was preferred, but he didn't know any. He scrolled through the tips and warnings without reading any of it. He watched a few Youtube videos to prepare, but was disappointed to see nothing happened. Where were all the flickering lights and eerie voices and floating objects?

Stiles loaded candles, big and small, and salt (for spiritual protection) in his backpack, along with a flashlight, a couple bottles of Gatorade, a few cans of Pringles, and several bags of candy, in case he got hungry. Snacks, in his opinion, were the most necessary equipment when it came to ghost-hunting. Stiles dialed Scot's number on the cordless phone while he packed. Melissa McCall picked up on the third ring. "Hey, Mrs. M, is Scott home yet?"

"He just walked in the door – not five minutes ago."

"Did he ask you if he could sleep over at my place tonight? Dad left me some money to order pizza, and I have some movies we can watch."

"It's alright with me. But, Stiles, no scary movies, okay? I don't want Scott watching them, and I know your dad doesn't like them either. No more Stephen King. I don't want Scott having nightmares."

"No scary movies, I promise." A promise Stiles would keep, though he couldn't promise no scares in general. Who needed a movie when you could experience the real thing?

Melissa laid out a few more ground rules, and Stiles agreed with each of them. She didn't forbid haunted houses, seances, or being out after dark; it was a technicality – should she really have to _tell_ him to avoid such things? - but Stiles thrived on such technicalities. Loop holes were his specialty.

Melissa bid Stiles goodbye and handed the phone to her son. Scott had just finished packing an overnight bag with the usual sleepover items – change of clothes, toothbrush, pillow – along with any items he thought they might need for their adventure, if they actually went through with Stiles' idiotic plan: a heavy-duty flashlight with extra batteries, a First Aid kit, a compass, duct tape, a pocket knife, and a warm sweater. He even sneaked into his parents' bedroom and found the flare gun his father kept hidden in the closet. "Are you almost ready?" Stiles asked.

"I'm heading over now."

"Ride your bike. The house is too far out for us to walk."

"Okay." He was already regretting this little 'adventure.'

"I'm bringing all the candles I could find, but if you could bring more, that would be great. Every website I checked said candles were important for a seance."

"Stiles," Scott lowered his voice, so his mother wouldn't hear him. She was in the kitchen washing dishes, his conversation lost over the din of plates clanking and water running. "I'm not sure about this."

Stiles dragged a chair from the dining table to the counter. He stood tiptoe on the seat and searched the back of the cupboard for full cans of salt. He pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder, reaching a free hand far into the back. He gathered a few cans into his arms. He groaned. "C'mon Scott. Not this again. We agreed this is going to be awesome. Don't be a sissy."

"I'm _not_ a sissy. I'm going with you, but I don't think this is a good idea." He wanted to make that apparent beforehand. A prefatory 'I told you so.' "And I don't like lying to my mom either."

"First, you're _not_ lying to your mom. You're just leaving out a piece of the truth. Second, this is going to be fun. How many times do I gotta say that? Just come over so we can get going. I want to be able to set everything up before it gets dark."

Scott sighed. "Okay. I'm coming."

"By the way, you don't happen to have a Ouija board, do you?"

Scott rolled his eyes before hanging up. "Bye, Stiles."

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

After meeting at the Stilinski house and taking inventory of their supplies, the two boys mounted their bikes and cycled out of town to the woods. The trip took them half an hour, past the elementary school and the Chuck E Cheese, the veterinary clinic and the Beacon Hills Preserve. Stiles didn't want to chance being spotted by his dad, so they took an indirect route to avoid the Sheriff's Station.

The bag on Scott's back was heavy. He panted from the effort of biking with the additional weight. "How much farther?" he complained, wheezing with a touch of childhood asthma. There was an unpaved road at the opening of the forest. Stiles turned right onto a partially overgrown dirt path, leading them further into the foliage. At certain points, they had to push their bikes over uneven ground where it was too difficult to bike.

Stiles pulled a map from his pocket. He had taken it from the sheriff's study. He tried to remember the route he had taken with his father almost a year ago – the only time he had ever been to the house. Scott handed him the compass from his pack, smiling smugly at his own preparedness. After another forty-five minutes, they arrived, winded and exhausted. Stiles' eyes gleamed with excitement; Scott cringed with anxiety.

The Hale house was a large, three-storey edifice. Even in the light of the late afternoon sun, it was dark and sinister. Aside from being strange and mysterious, the house was nothing like Stiles had described. It mostly certainly _did_ appear burned, and only half of it was standing. From the front, the charred house, with its stone porch and tall decrepit chimney, looked deceptively whole. A mask for the decaying skeleton within. Several of the wide windows peered into the back yard – like dead, gaping eyes; the ones that didn't were black and sooty, peering into scorched rooms and harboring malevolent secrets. Scott eyed the crumbling remains of the house skeptically. He couldn't imagine how any of the rooms could still be intact. This place should be torn down; there was too much structural damage to even label it a "house" anymore. What Stiles had found was little more than a "haunted" health hazard.

Stiles hopped off his bike and abandoned it in the yard. He stared up in wonder at the old house. Scott leaned his bike against a nearby tree, checked his Hot Wheels wrist watch in trepidation, and followed his friend up the steps. His lungs tightened, but he said nothing. Stiles would never listen to his reasoning. Stiles turned the door knob. Ash fluttered down from the lintel and sprinkled in Stiles' hair. The door squealed on its hinges. The sound echoed like the dying screams of tormented ghosts in Scott's ears. Goose pimples prickled over his flesh. He put a hand on his best friend's shoulder. Stiles threw him an eager smirk, and disappeared inside.


	3. Chapter 3: Exploration Perils

**Chapter Three: Exploration Perils**

"This is a bad idea!" Scott shouted after his friend. He was beginning to sound like a broken record. How many times did he need to repeat himself before Stiles finally realized he was right? He was the practical one, the reasonable one; how did he constantly let Stiles talk him into these ridiculous endeavors?

"Just come in here already! I think – AHHH!" Stiles screamed.

"Stiles!" Worry for his friend crowded out the minor incessant anxieties in his head. Without thinking, Scott dashed into the dark Hale House. Soot sprinkled into his hair, but he didn't have time to think about the dead bodies those ashes might have once belonged to. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. There was Stiles, safe and sound, standing in the middle of the foyer. A goofy self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Awe, you _do_ care!"

Of course Scott cared! Stiles was his best friend – his annoying, deceiving, heedless best friend. "Don't do that!" Scott whined. "I thought you had gotten hurt."

"It was the only way I could think to get you into the house." This kind of logic came naturally to Stiles. He could read people, look inside them to their core, perceive what made them tick, in a way too eerie and insightful for a boy of his tender age. It both frustrated and amazed Scott, and he hated being on the receiving end of Stiles' cunning manipulation.

"Yeah, well, now I've seen the inside, so let's go." Scott scanned the house warily, and hoisted his backpack higher on his shoulders. The walls and floor weren't just covered in soot, but completely blackened. They shivered with each gust of wind that blew, breathing in and out in the unearthly silence, so that the entire house seemed alive. A great sleeping monster into which they had trespassed, waiting for the perfect moment to swallow them whole.

"I want to look around." Stiles tramped lightly into a room to their left, a parlour of some kind, Scott right at his heels. "Woah." The wallpaper was singed, the glass in the window panes warped, their glimpses to the outside world twisted and fat, like reflections in fun house mirrors. The blackened furniture pieces were mostly whole, scattered around a useless fireplace, waiting for their owners to return. Stiles could almost feel their presences there – the Hale family – watching from the dark shadows. Were they friends or foes? He could feel Scott's hot, hurried breath exhaling into his ear and down his neck, making his hairs stand straight on end. Like ghosts stalking him. Watching. Waiting. "Will you stop that?" he demanded, suddenly stopping and wheeling around. Scott stumbled and nearly face-planted on the dirty floor.

"Stiles, let's just go," he whispered, nearly begged, afraid to break the house's supernatural sleep with his voice. _Beware all ye who enter here._

"What about the séance?"

"The séance was a stupid idea, and you know it. Your dad wouldn't want you to be here." Stiles heard the mutinous fear bubbling under the surface of his friend's tone.

"You wouldn't snitch, would you?"

"Yes, I would." Scott, unlike other prepubescent males, had no great objections against tattling. Especially when he knew he was in the right. He didn't like having to play the Sheriff Stilinski card, but it was the only way he seemed to win an argument against Stiles anymore. Since his mother had died, Stiles had been more daring, almost reckless, and the only thing that seemed to rein in his rash abandon was the mention of his father.

Stiles sighed in defeat, his feigned disgust all but covering his secret relief. "Alright. Just give me a few minutes to keep looking around." Scott nodded, but ran for the front door. He preferred to spend the last of his time in the Hale house straddling the threshold, inhaling the sweet scent of Californian autumn air.

Stiles tiptoed gingerly back through the main hallway and into a kitchen, so charred as to be almost unrecognizable, and a gigantic hole in the floor. Stiles peered over the edge into the dark basement below. The muted sunlight revealed vague shapes; he began to imagine the seared bones of the Hale children, their scorched flesh clinging to their black skeletons like overcooked meat, reaching up with their mutilated fingers and dragging him down into their infernal grave.

He backed away.

The rest of the first floor was more of the same – blistered wallpaper and flame-licked furniture, stale air thick with soot and dust and memories. Scott could hardly breathe. He took three quick inhales of his puffer, and begged Stiles to hurry up. Stiles wasn't sure what motivated his morbid curiosity, what pulled him to continue looking through the house; he _needed_ to see all of it, to know, to leave no corner hidden, no stone unturned. What was he looking for? He didn't know, but he couldn't lose face in front of Scott. He had to keep going.

The rear of the house had received the most damage, where the flames had licked up the side, melting and twisting, crumbling away in the wind. Stiles had finished exploring the downstairs – being sure to keep a wide berth around the gigantic hole as he ventured from one room to the next. That just left the basement, which not even Stiles could ever muster up the gumption or sick curiosity to explore, and the upstairs.

Standing in the decrepit front foyer, amid rubble and junk, the peeling wallpaper, Stiles looked much smaller than his twelve years. He was standing at the bottom of the staircase looking up. The stairs _looked_ safe enough. Dirty, sure, covered half an inch think in black dust and plaster, but relatively sound.

"Don't even think about it." Scott stood with the tips of his toes pressed against the threshold, as though a magical barrier hindered him from entering. "C'mon. You've seen the inside of the 'haunted' house – and it's a dump that looks like it could fall down any second-"

"If it's lasted this long, I'm sure a gust of wind isn't going to blow it down now."

"Don't roll your eyes!" Scott huffed. Stiles was missing the point, as usual. "You know what I'm saying. We came; we saw. Now, let's leave. What's up there that you haven't already seen down here?"

"You're right. It's probably just bedrooms and bathrooms, or whatever."

Scott breathed out a sigh of relief, and allowed his tense shoulders to relax ever so slightly. "Yes. Exactly. Let's go. You promised me pizza."

"Then again," with those two words, Scott knew he had lost Stiles; anything he said now would go in one ear and out the other, without stopping in the brain in-between. "Those are probably the most interesting rooms, right? Where else would I be the most likely to interact with specific ghosts? I bet I could learn a lot of about the Hales by looking at their bedrooms."

"Stiles, don't."

Stiles' right foot landed on the bottom stair.

"Come on, dude. Let's just go."

The second stair. The third.

"I'm practically begging you here!"

Left. Right. Left. Right.

"Stiles, come out!"

Up, up, up.

Stiles stepped onto the landing and smiled down at Scott triumphantly. His friend was backlit by the setting sun, his silhouette a dark figure at the threshold, a terrified being straddling the edge of two worlds. "What were you so afraid of, scaredy-pants? It's fine."

Above him, the orange and pink sky shone through a wide opening that had once been the third floor. He turned to the right, where the house was the most intact, intent on starting his investigation in that direction. He took a couple strides forward. Raised his right leg, stepped on board, when his foot suddenly crashed through the rotted wood. He stumbled forward, falling face first. Stiles barely had time to thrust his hands out in front of him, keeping his face from smearing on the floor. His leg had disappeared in the hole up to the mid-thigh.

"Stiles! Are you alright?" Scott had watched his friend go down. One minute he was walking along the landing, the next he had crashed out-of-sight behind the railing.

"I'm fine. I just fell." Stiles winced and tried to right himself.

Swallowing his fear, Scott re-entered the house. This was _exactly_ the kind of thing he knew was going to happen. But did Stiles ever listen to him? No! Of course not! Taking the stairs carefully, clinging to the bannister as a lifeline and testing each step with his foot before he put his weight on it, Scott made his way up the stairs. Stiles had managed to free his leg from the board; his jeans were ripped, and Scott could see blood seeping slowly into the denim. Unbecoming red stripes.

"Can you stand?"

"Of course!" Stiles pressed his back against the wall. Using his left leg, and bracing himself with his hands, Stiles pushed himself into a standing position. He smiled reassuringly at Scott, but his smile was thin, his eyes wet and growing wetter. Scott was aware of the sweat already beading on Stiles' hairline. Even standing had clearly cost him a lot of effort.

"You're injured. You're in pain."

"No. I'm fine. You're right: we should get out of here." Stiles tried to walk forward, but his right ankle collapsed underneath him, unable to support his weight. All 87 pounds of him slammed forward on the landing. "OW!"

Scott slung Stiles' arm around him and helped pull him into a sitting position, propping him against the wall. He rolled up Stiles' pant leg. Stiles whimpering as he did so. "This isn't good." Stiles' leg was covered in scratches and scrapes; his skin already starting to turn a gross eggplant purple. Worst of all, his ankle was swelling. Scott brushed his fingers along the darkening area, and Stiles cringed. Uh oh, just as he had suspected. "I think you have a severe sprain. That's why your ankle is unstable." Lines appeared between Scott's eyebrows as he frowned. "You won't be able to walk. There's no way I can support you all the way downstairs _and_ home. I have to go for help."

"What?!" Stiles glanced up again through the makeshift skylight. It was starting to get dark. Soon the sun would be down. "You can't leave me here alone!" Being in the Hale House with Scott and having two working legs was one thing, but this… he didn't know how he would survive.

Scott placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "You need help, Stiles. If I don't go now, we could be stuck here all night. No one knows where we are." One of the disadvantages, Scott would have pointed out, of lying to your parents about your plans and going on 'adventures' you _knew_ they would disapprove of. "I'll go now on my bike and be right back. I promise."

"Isn't there another way?" Stiles bit down on his lip. His eyes were watering; he hated that. He would not start sobbing like a little child. He would _not!_

"You know I wouldn't abandon you, Sty." Stiles looked into his friend's eyes, and nodded. He knew Scott wouldn't leave him. Scott was a good person to have around in an emergency. Stiles remembered when his mother had died, and Scott had spent hours just sitting there beside him in silence. Just sitting. He had the intuition to know when to talk and when to listen, when to just be a comforting presence.

"I know." Stiles managed a small grin. "Isn't this the part when you should be telling me 'I told you so'?"

Scott smiled in return. "I totally did tell you, but there's plenty of time for that later. First we got to get you out of here. I'll leave my pack with you." Scott slipped his pack off his shoulders. "There's supplies in here, if you need them." He unzipped the bag, took out the extra sweater, and helped Stiles slip it over his head.

"Thanks, Mom."

"You must be okay. You're still sarcastic." Scott stood. A chill shot up his spine, making the ends of his hair stand straight. Looming over his friend in the dark, Stiles pale and ashen, cradled in dust and shadows, he looked like a little ghost boy. A forgotten corpse.

"Ugh, my dad's going to kill me!"

"Probably, but that'll be better than spending the night here!" At the mention on the impending night, Stiles glanced up again at the encroaching darkness. Scott knew what he was thinking. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Stop talking and just go!"

First Scott made sure Stiles was comfortable, propping the backpacks on either side of him, putting his pillow under the injured ankle. "I'll be alright," Stiles promised, putting on his brave face. He pulled out a bottle of green Gatorade and a can of pizza flavored Pringles. "At least I won't starve."

Scott nodded, and without further fuss, hurried down the stairs and outside, leaving the door wide open. Stiles heard him pick his bike off the ground with a rustle of leaves, the card pinned to his spokes snapping with each turn of the wheel. The sounds faded and faded, until they were gone.

The silence enveloped Stiles like a plastic bag – tight and suffocating. He was completely alone.


End file.
